


Normal

by inthebackoftheimpala (Wishme)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, College AU, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 07:56:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1258786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wishme/pseuds/inthebackoftheimpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean takes Cas on a date, because that's what normal couples do, right? Dean can totally do normal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Normal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clotpoleofthelord (plantainleaf)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/gifts).



They’re lying on the couch one night, legs threaded together, sprawled across each other's bodies while the credits to _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ roll, when Dean decides to take Cas out on a date. The flickering lights hit the sharp planes of his boyfriend’s face and he can’t look away, staring for every one of the long minutes before the screen glows blue. He stares the way he knows Cas does at him during the long nights the other man can’t find sleep. They’re often up late studying together, but more often than not Dean crashes first. Some nights Cas never joins him--Dean knows because the sheets are too cool and he doesn't have any drool on his chest,  like he does now. Those mornings he usually lets Cas feign sleep long enough for him to make a pot of coffee and bring some up in Cas's favorite mug. The insomnia worries him--the bruises under Cas's eyes are more pronounced than ever and while Cas blames it on midterms, Dean has a feeling they'll deepen until graduation. Another reason to do something nice, something special.

 

He does it right. He makes reservations and everything. He even picks Cas up at his place.  No matter that Cas spends four nights a week at Dean’s, and most afternoons besides, which just makes sense--Dean’s apartment is closer to campus than the place Cas shares with his brother-- but whatever, he’s doing it _right_ , dammit. And man is he glad he is--Cas is fucking smoking in a suit. Dean didn't even know Cas owned one, let alone one with a waistcoat that draws eyes to the hip bones he fucking knows lurk beneath the pressed waistband of the smartly tailored slacks. His boyfriend looks up from fiddling with his cufflinks ( _fucking cufflinks. Fuck._ ) to shoot him a smug look because he’s an asshole. Dean groans and hurries him to the car, opening the passenger door before scooting around to slide behind the wheel.

 

He’s not nervous. Of course he’s not. They’ve been on dates before. Sure, they’ve mostly been to the Roadhouse, but it serves food so it’s more like a restaurant than a bar, and they’ve spent loads of times across the tables in diners at wee hours, shins pressed together in a solid line. Ok, so maybe they mostly skipped the whole “dating” thing somewhere between growing up together and _being_ together. But Dean’s had dates. He was with Cassie for all of high school junior year, took Lisa out when they started at Kent State. But those weren’t anything like this, just plastic table cloths and shallow conversation. Not that they weren’t great, because they totally were. For a bit there he thought that maybe what he had with Lisa was _it_ , even. But no one has ever been Cas. He can handle a date-- it's what normal couples do. They can be normal.

 

Dean can totally do normal.

 

Which is why his knuckles are white around the steering wheel and the car is dead silent. _Great start, Winchester_. A hand slides over to rest right above his knee, Cas still watching the lights flash by the window, the pressure of his fingers an unconscious anchor. Dean’s glad for it, glad that the small boy who took his hand on the playground all those years ago still reaches out for him, lets his hand drift down to cover his boyfriend’s.

 

Most of the tension leaks out of Dean’s shoulders at the simple touch, like it always does. Cas is so steady, his cornerstone, except when he’s crackling and bright like a storm. But even those outbursts have weight, purpose. They’re, neither of them, the most self-aware, but Dean’s ever met anyone more aware of _him_ and he’s never been aware of anyone else like this. The bastard isn’t even the slightest bit anxious or tense over on the other side of the car, like he’s not as distracted by this evening or Dean’s clothes as Dean is by him. Because Lord knows Dean has no idea how they’ve made it to the restaurant without getting into an accident, seeing as he couldn’t help fucking looking at the buttons of Cas’s waistcoat.

 

They breeze into the restaurant, Dean’s hand on the small of Cas’s back, Cas opening the door for them both. The hostess smiles and leads them to their table, through snippets of murmured conversations. The restaurant is nice--white table cloths, dim lighting, candle on the table, and a tome for a wine list.  He orders a bottle of merlot from the waiter and blushes at Cas’s raised eyebrow. “It’s your favorite,” he shrugs.

 

Cas smiles and hooks his foot around Dean’s ankle under the table. They sip the wine and debate appetizers, settling for the crispy brussel sprouts with parmesan and a warm farro and arugula salad. They talk and Dean relaxes into conversation about little things: classes, midterms, that asshole French professor Cas argues with twice a week. He’s barely conscious of much else beyond the food (fucking fried brussel sprouts, _who knew_ ) and surprisingly delicious wine, enthusiastically offering Cas bites of his 3-meat lasagne and even trying some of Cas’s branzino with tomato confit, whatever the hell that is. The food is amazing and he can’t take his eyes off the man across the table from him. The low lighting softens the planes of Cas’s face, making his eyes that much more piercing, each smile peeking out from the shadows. The other patrons fade into the background when Cas laughs at a dumb joke  and Dean forgets to think about where they are, enthralled with a combination of Cas and good food. Too soon they’ve emptied the wine bottle and paid the bill and they’re holding hands on the way to the car.  Cas is already in the passenger seat before Dean can decide if opening the door for him is too much, peering through the windshield expectantly. He offers Dean a small smile and snags his free hand once the Impala has roared to life.

 

The ride back to Dean’s apartment is as quiet as their trip over, but this time it’s comfortable. Cas stares out the window at the streetlights, trying like always to make out the stars hidden from view by the downtown lights. Dean’s content to let the road sweep them home. Wordlessly they walk to front door, shoulders brushing, fingers loosely entwined. The lock sticks, opening more to Dean’s muttered curse and Cas’s soft chuckle than the key. They slip off their shoes at the door and Cas leads the way down the hall, shucking his coat as he goes. The muscled line of his shoulders flares brilliantly as he flicks on the bedroom light, searing lines against Dean’s eyelids that look like wings. By the time he blinks them away and stumbles into the room, Cas has already hung his waistcoat and is efficiently working the buttons of his shirt. They strip in silence, shirts and ties hung, pants folded along the crease, everything hung side-by-side in the half of the closet Cas has started to take over. His trenchcoat is nestled against Dean’s worn leather jacket, his shirts and sweaters mixed in with Dean’s, just like his socks and boxers are in the dresser. Dean’s sure it’s a metaphor for their lives, but that’s too big to think about right now when his boyfriend has hooked his fingers into the waistband of Dean’s boxers and is pulling him towards the bed.

 

Their knees knock together before Cas slides his leg between Dean’s, settling his boyfriend across his chest. He presses his lips to Dean’s forehead and says, “Tonight was nice.”

 

“Yeah, it was,” Dean agrees, lazily dropping a kiss to Cas’s collar bone.

 

“You know I don’t need that, right?” Cas asks. Dean freezes and his boyfriend sighs, pressing his fingers against Dean’s jaw so their eyes can meet.

 

“Dean, I’m just as happy spending an evening on our couch watching movies as I am going to a restaurant. It doesn’t matter what we do, as long a I get to do it with you. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

 

Dean exhales and reaches up to cup Cas’s face, thumb sliding along the ridge of his cheekbone, “I know. I just...wanted to do something special. Because you are.” The last sentence comes out mumbled, obscured against Cas’s neck, where Dean has buried his head.

 

Laughing, Cas pulls back. “Dean Winchester, you sappy fuck. Did you just say I’m special?”

 

Dean groans and flops back against the pillows on his side of the bed, “Shut up.”

 

“You did!” Cas crows, shaking with suppressed laughter.

 

“I hate you. You’re terrible.” Dean throws his arm over his eyes, trying to pretend his face and neck aren’t completely pink.

 

A slight dip in the mattress is all the warning Dean gets before Cas straddles Dean’s torso, prying his arm away. “Hey,” Cas says.

 

Dean scrunches his eyes shut trying to hide from Cas’s scrutiny and the way he seems to see everything. It’s useful when Dean needs help getting out of a conversation or they’re ganging up on Sam about his love life, but sometimes it leaves him feeling raw and exposed. Like now, where he knows Cas finally gets what the night was about, what Dean was trying to say.

 

“Hey. Look at me,” Cas persists.

 

It’s useless to resist; Cas inevitably wins this sort of thing with his unending patience. Dean cracks his lids open to see his boyfriend smiling down at him, all smug and beatific. He cups Dean’s face with both hands and says, “I love you, you idiot.”

 

It’s far from the first time he’s said it, but it never gets old, those three small words rumbling from Cas’s chest. Dean’s breath hitches and Cas’s fingers still from where they were tracing the lines of Dean’s face.  He leans down to dust kisses across the bridge of Dean’s nose, following the swell of freckles, pressing “I love you” down his neck, mouthing it against Dean’s jaw and chest. He laves the words into the small pouch that sits at his boyfriend’s belly and Dean squirms. Batting at Dean’s knees, Cas slides back up the bed until their shoulders are pressed together again and Cas is grinning up at him with his stupidly endearing gummy smile.

 

He’s _perfect_. It punches the air out of him, that Cas is here with him. That Cas wants this, that Dean can have this, have Cas. It’s humbling and Dean doesn’t deserve it, but damn if he’s ever giving it up. He pulls Cas in for a kiss, hand heavy and trembling on the other man’s neck. Cas opens for him and he dips in, pouring as much of the dammed up emotion from tonight into it as he can--the anxiety and tension, the laughter and adoration, all of it centered on the man beside him, gripping Dean’s ass. Dean rolls his hips and Cas groans, the gravel sound of it going straight to Dean’s dick. On a gasp, Dean grabs Cas’s hip with bruising force, swearing as he grinds down again, their swiftly thickening lengths brushing against each other beneath the cotton of their shorts. He mouths against the curve of Cas’s neck, kissing sloppily upward, enjoying the hitched intake of breath that follows each one. Sucking on an earlobe earns him a pained whimper and he grins as he drags his teeth across his boyfriend’s stubble, imagining how awesome Cas’s boxers will look thrown across their dresser in about thirty seconds.

 

 _Their dresser_. Dean stops nipping his way down Cas’s jawline and Cas groans. “Dean, you’re killing me.”

 

Clearing his throat Dean says wonderingly, "You said our couch."

 

“What?” Cas’s eyes are unfocused with desire, his voice nearly an octave lower than usual.

 

“You said our couch.” Dean repeats, more firmly. Cas, who guards his space viciously, who keeps a room at an apartment he barely ever sees and leaves his keys for on Dean’s desk, who refused to even let them do laundry together for two freaking years, decides of all the damn things to proclaim “theirs” it’s a shitty couch with lumpy cushions and far too many questionable stains.

 

“Seriously, Dean? All of this happening,” Cas gestures between them, “And _that's_ what you’re thinking about?”

 

Dean just looks at him and Cas laughs, slumping against him, all the tension they’d wound up gone.  "You’re ridiculous. But, yes. _Our_ couch, _our_ bed, _our_ home. You're it Dean--this is it for me. I don't know what's going to happen when we graduate, if my parents are ever going to stop hounding me about a political career or if my brothers will ever not be a collective bag of dicks, but the _one_ thing I do know is that I love you and that's not ever going to change.”

 

Cas’s eyes are clear and steady, like he hasn’t just basically proposed. Dean buries his head in Cas shoulder for a minute--the wet spot forming under his face totally isn’t from tears. It takes him a minute, maybe more, before he’s composed enough to lift his eyes to Cas’s and say,"Me too, you know."

 

Cas wriggles closer, settling them more firmly under the covers, and presses his lips to Dean’s temple. "I know. Now shut up and go to sleep. I've got Singer at nine am and you know he isn't friendly before noon.”

 

Dean snorts because Professor Singer isn’t exactly the friendliest _ever_ and pulls his boyfriend closer. He stays awake on the soft edge of sleep until he feels Cas's breath even out and deepen and then lets himself tip over.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> For Lis, on the occasion of her birthday. 
> 
> You're the best.
> 
> Many thanks to Lily who is the best beta that has ever been or will be.


End file.
